The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Power of Meow (The Dalai Lama's Cat 3)

“Perhaps the most apt,” said Serena. “When you’re with him, sometimes even when you’re not with him—”

“You feel it.” Oliver met her eyes with a warm understanding in his own.

“I’m so pleased you’ve come to Namgyal,” Serena said as she reached out spontaneously to squeeze his hand. “You probably don’t know this, but I was good friends with your predecessor, Lobsang.”

“Actually, I did know.” Oliver put down his cup and pushed back his chair. “And I’m glad you mentioned it. I found something the other day I thought you may like to have.”

After he left the office, Tenzin and Serena exchanged a few words about how very special His Holiness’s new translator was and how wonderfully he fitted in. After lapping the very last drops of milk from the saucer, I sat up, raising my front left paw and beginning to lick it in preparation for a post-prandial face wash.

When Oliver returned he was holding a small, square Kodachrome photograph, which he gave Serena. As soon as she saw it, her face lit up.

“Oh my goodness! Where did you find this?” she exclaimed.

“I was clearing out some bookshelves and it fell out from somewhere.”

“I don’t even remember . . .”

Tenzin was peeking over her shoulder. I paused my face-washing momentarily. The photograph was of Lobsang and Serena as teenagers in the kitchen downstairs. Both were wearing aprons and chopping vegetables, no doubt in preparation for a VIP lunch.

“All those years ago.” Serena’s voice was soft. “Dear Lobsang. I so hope he is well.”

“I’m quite sure he is,” Oliver assured her. “He’s living in Bhutan right now.”

“With his family?”

“Some sort of job helping the queen.”

My ears pricked up at this. As a relative of the Bhutanese royal family, it had been Lobsang who’d arranged for the adoption of my one and only daughter, little Snow Cub, by the queen.

“How interesting the way the world turns.” Serena reached out to stroke me. “And how reassuring that Lobsang will be keeping an eye on Rinpoche’s daughter.”

“In Bhutan?” asked Oliver.

As Serena explained the connection, Oliver looked over at me with new reverence.

“Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “So HHC is the queen’s cat’s mother!”

“Could there be any higher nobility?” Tenzin asked with a droll smile as the three of them observed me washing me ears.

“There may be,” smiled Oliver. “But none that I’ve ever heard of!”

His Holiness returned that afternoon, and within minutes of his arrival was receiving a visitor. His guest was a very senior executive from one of the best-known social media organizations in the world. Being a cat of immense discretion, let me just say that name of the company where the visitor was a high flier is reminiscent of the sound made by birds in the trees. By way of a further, very subtle clue, the corporate brand is not a million miles away from rhyming with that essential cat bathroom provision: litter.

“Your Holiness,” began the visitor. He had a balding head, dark-rimmed glasses, and a radiant intelligence. “The reason I’m here today is to invite you to address a conference of the world’s leading consumer electronic companies in Silicon Valley next year.”

As I eavesdropped from my place on the sill, he went on to explain how every year there was a big conference offering a forum for social media networks, consumer product manufacturers, and mindfulness teachers.

After the visitor had finished his explanation, the Dalai Lama reached over and took his hand. “Tell me,” he said as he looked deep into his eyes, “do you yourself meditate?”

“Oh yes, Your Holiness!”

“And you encourage others in your organization to do so?”

The visitor nodded. “It’s an important part of what I do. Of course, you can’t force someone to meditate. But we have daily sessions, dedicated quiet rooms, and at certain meetings, like brainstorms, we always begin with two minutes of meditation.”

His Holiness was intrigued.

“Can I ask why?”